The Cheesemonger – Part 1: The Rind Test

"Which one tastes like rain?" said Mere.

Katrin stared at the forty tiny cubes of cheese laid out on the wooden board in front of her. It was Saturday morning at the Wellington waterfront market, and a light drizzle drummed on the canvas awning. The stall smelled of salt, milk and wet wool. She was thirty-one, a food writer from Berlin, in a long waterproof coat, with a notebook and a deeply sceptical eyebrow.

"Rain doesn't have a taste."

"Everything has a taste."

Mere, thirty-four, the cheesemonger, was short and strong, with dark curls tied up in a scarf, an apron stained with whey and a laugh like a bell. She ran the stall with her sister and had cut cheese by hand for nine years. She held out a pale, crumbly sample. "Try."

Katrin tried it. It was fresh and cool and faintly mineral, with a soft salt tang that dissolved like mist. She frowned.

"That's... astonishing."

"Rain."

"Rain."

"Told you."

They went through the board together, slowly, tasting and talking. Mere explained the farms, the goats, the seasons. Katrin scribbled. By eleven, the drizzle had thickened and the stall was crowded with shoppers. Katrin found herself behind the counter, wrapping parcels in waxed paper, laughing at Mere's running commentary.

"You're hired," said Mere.

"I'm a journalist."

"You're a very good wrapper."

At noon, they ate bread and cheese standing under the awning, sheltering from the downpour, the harbour grey and silver beyond.

"Can I ask you something?" said Katrin.

"Yes."

"Why do you love it?"

"Because it's alive," said Mere. "It changes every day. You have to listen."

Katrin looked at her. A raindrop slid off the canvas and fell on Mere's cheek. She didn't brush it away.

"Green?" said Katrin, a mould, a leaf.

"Green," said Mere, delighted. "Very green. Come back tomorrow. I'll show you the cellar."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Cellar.